


The Wolves Have Come Again

by Princess_Sarcastia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, House Stark, I'm posting my first work on AO3 out of spite for what DD did in got s8e5, Jon Snow is King in the North, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, R Plus L Equals J, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), Suicide mention, bran has real emotions, but none strong enough for a tag, in all but name, there are general house stark interactions, vague northern politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 12:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Sarcastia/pseuds/Princess_Sarcastia
Summary: Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Arya return Winterfell on their own, after the battles for the Dawn and Iron Throne are finished.  All the North watches as they heal themselves and serve their kingdom together, as a family.





	The Wolves Have Come Again

The people of the North watch their new royal family with keen eyes, particularly Sansa Stark.

People used to say she had the same coloring of her mother: red Tully hair and blue Tully eyes. Now they say that she has the coloring of the weirwood trees. Skin as pale as its white bark, hair the same fiery red as its leaves. Even her expression resembles its face sometimes, but for the tears of sap. Sansa Stark never cries, not anymore.

Some of the servants talk about how she spends hours and hours sitting underneath its great branches, closes her eyes and listens to the wind glide through its leaves. It’s the only time she smiles, they say, other than when she’s with her brother Jon.

Then Brandon Stark comes back, with Meera Reed in tow, and it makes sense.

* * *

Not a single one of the lords from the Northern houses approached Jon about making a match with his sister, nor did they approach her, try to court her. Some of the lords from the south tried, but they were deftly rebuffed. After that, those southerners turned the other northern ladies, but the minute they’d tried to marry Sansa Stark they lost any chance they had.

Sansa held a court of sorts, inviting ladies and lords to come and stay at Winterfell for a time. When they did, they would sit at the high table with the royal family; talk with them, and jest with them. A rare few of them could get Lady Stark to smile truly, and they rejoiced, redoubling their efforts in an attempt to get her to smile again.

Every lord and lady who stayed at Winterfell left knowing two things. One, that Jon Snow was the greatest King in the North they could have chosen. Two, that Sansa Stark was never going to marry.

Women were married off to gain alliances, or to gain power. The North had no interest in allying with any southern houses, not anymore, and the Starks did not need to forge alliances with any other northern house. They all followed the Starks absolutely; indeed, if any one house was favored with a marriage over another, it might throw the balance of power into chaos and resentment could flourish.

And as for power, well. There was no greater position than Queen in the North. Oh, they never crowned her, never gave her a title, but there was no one else. Sansa Stark was their queen, regardless of whether Jon Snow ever married. She was of the north, she understood its people, which was more than could be said of their previous queen. The one who had gotten the Young Wolf killed.

* * *

The day Arya Stark returned to Winterfell was still. The snowfall halted, the wind died down, and it seemed as if the trees themselves were waiting with bated breath.

The person manning the gates almost didn’t believe her, until he saw the wolf at her side, which stood up to her shoulder. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had ridden the thing here, he thought faintly as he opened the gates and sent for the Lords and Lady of Winterfell.

Before the messenger had even made it across the yard, Ghost came barreling around the corner of the Guard Hall. He raced past all of the people, dodging carts and servants alike, until he came to a sudden stop right in front of Arya.

“Ghost,” she breathed out, her eyes wide, but before she could do anything else Jon Snow came chasing after his wolf. When he saw what had called the beast there he froze, not twenty paces from the sister he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.

“Arya?” he whispered, disbelieving. Ghost padded foreword and began to nuzzle the slightly larger wolf next to her, and soon the two were rolling around on the frozen ground, nipping playfully at each other.

“Jon,” she said, her voice tight with emotion, but it was lost to the wind as she rushed towards her brother and leapt into his arms, clinging to him.

He wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes, clutching her to him just as tightly. Neither one of them said anything; they simply stood there as their wolves played, for what could have been moments or hours for all they cared.

“By the gods,” someone breathed from across the yard, and finally the pair opened their eyes to see Sansa standing there, her hands clutching tightly at the handles of Bran’s pushcart.

“Sansa, Bran!” Arya cried as she ran towards her siblings, pulling Jon along by the arm with a strength that surprised him. She barreled into her sister and clutched at her waist, and they both sunk into the snow next to their brothers. Bran reached over, throwing his arms around the pair of them, and Jon kneeled down and hugged all three.

Sansa, the ice cold lady-queen who never cried, not ever, was sobbing into her sister’s hair, and Bran was whispering “I knew you’d come back,” over and over, until he started crying too. Then all four of them were crying, and laughing, because finally, finally, they were all together again, and all around Winterfell the wolves raised their heads and howled.

* * *

Bran slowly blinked as he came back to himself, his hand lowering from the face of Winterfell’s weirwood tree.

“What was it this time?” Meera asked from where she was sitting next to him idly sharpening the end of her spear.

“The Dragon Queen,” Bran murmured, staring off into space. “There was a house, with a red door.”

“Was it important?”

“I don’t know,” he said easily, hoisting himself closer to the trunk so he could lean against it. “They’re all important, I suppose, but this one was…quiet. Peaceful. Like a dream.”

Meera glanced at him for a moment, attentive, before turning back to her spear. She always sat with him while he had his visions. Bran quietly suspected it was a holdover from when Jojen had had his visions, and the seizures that came with them.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, Meera sharpening her spear and Bran contemplating his vision. The wind had died down slightly, but it still whispered through the trees, making the leaves of the weirwood rustle.

Bran watched as one of them tumbled from its branch to rest on top of Meera’s head. She looked up, slightly startled, as Bran reached over and plucked it from her crown, then tucked it into one of the braids she always put her hair in.

Meera stared at him as he moved his hand from her hair to cup her cheek, and he stared back, slightly mesmerized.

* * *

All most people talked about these days were the Stark children, who were children no longer. They talked about wild Arya, who was calmer than before but never tamed; Bran, sweet Bran, whose eyes were full of secrets yet warmer than even the homeliest hearths.

Those two, their home was in the North, with their brother and sister, but even after all this time, and even with the loss of his legs, the pair of them were wanderers. Adventurers, some would say, but perhaps they didn’t seek out trouble as they had before.

Therefore no one was surprised when one day, it was announced that Bran and Meera would be traveling to Greywater Watch in the Neck, to see Howland Reed, and that Arya would be accompanying them. No one mentioned whether or not Arya would be coming back with the pair, but everyone knew that she would return home eventually.

All of the servants noticed how much time Bran spent with Meera, and how she sat at the high table with him and his siblings, and how she trained in the yard with Jon, and how she talked Lady Sansa in her solar. So they were also unsurprised when the raven came announcing Bran Stark’s betrothal to Meera Reed.

The other Northern houses were slightly displeased that such a match, even to a cripple, would go to a house so small and insignificant, and not to them. Many recalled the friendship Ned Stark showed to Howland Reed, when he had been alive, and wondered if this was another show of favoritism, passed down a generation.

But when they were invited to the ceremony in the godswood at Winterfell, and they saw how he looked at her, and she at him, most of their disquiet vanished, because clearly this wasn’t a strategic match on their part. Even a blind fool could see that the pair of them were so deeply in love it was a wonder they ever looked at anyone else.

* * *

Arya came back with them for the wedding, and stayed for a few days afterwards, but then she was off, leaving behind tight-lipped siblings and an equally quiet good-sister, leaving many to wonder where she was going. Some bolder folk whispered that perhaps she was going south, to see the new queen and take stock, but they were quickly hushed into silence; the spider had little birds even here, and if the Lords and Ladies refused to speak of it, then so would they.

A few weeks later, the Red Keep accepted a new servant girl into its service. She started out in the kitchens, but after a few days was sent to work as a serving girl. Burnt bread was not acceptable in a kitchen of their stature.

With a quick smile and a demeanor that wasn’t easily ruffled, she was soon ordered to bring food to a small set of chambers just off of the White Tower where the new Queen’s Guard was beginning to settle.

Two men guarded the doors of these chambers at all times, and the faces were never the same. The girl was allowed in to place the tray on a table in the solar, and returned a few hours later to retrieve it once it was empty.

Inside of these chambers resided Ser Jamie Lannister, otherwise known as the Kingslayer. The chambers themselves were most likely a kindness on his brother, the hand of the Queen’s, part; many suspected without his familial connection he would be residing in a dank cell and left to rot.

Most of the time he remained in his bedroom while she was delivering his food, but occasionally he would be sitting in the solar, and would regard her with a slightly puzzled look.

One day he spoke to her as he set the tray down. “You were a servant of Walder Frey’s, weren’t you?”

The girl looked at him, surprised. “Yes, my lord. If I may, ser, you have an excellent mind for faces.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Yes, well. I don’t have much to do besides remember. I assume you left the Twins after Walder Frey’s death?”

“Yes, my lord,” the girl said, and her smile grew slightly wider. When a moment passed without him saying anything, she curtsied, her eyes sweeping over him curiously as she left.

Jamie pondered that look, wondering what about it caught his attention. Women had always looked at him, with sultry eyes and beckoning expressions, but this…

It wasn’t that kind of look, he realized, faintly. It was more like the looks he had given men, sizing them up for battle, and that grin was a grin he’d given before, the easy confidence in knowing you could surely best this opponent in any situation.

A very curious smile for a simple serving girl to have, that.

He struck up simple conversations with her after that, each time she came to give him his meals, and continued to assess her. It was a very frustrating process, mostly because the girl was incredibly hard to read. It was also slightly enjoyable because it was the only human interaction he was given all day. He suspected there was a blanket order for all of the people in the Red Keep to essentially ignore his existence, and it made the girl’s readiness to engage with him just another mysterious quality.

Finally he grew tired of trying to discern answers himself and simply asked. “Why do you speak to me? I know you’re not supposed to.”

The serving girl grinned. She was always grinning, and this one had a mock-innocent feel to it. “Would you prefer I didn’t speak to you, my lord?”

He gave her a look. “Just answer the question.”

She tilted her head to the side, the grin fading from her face but her eyes no less amused. “Small favors to prisoners can lead to greater things, Ser Jamie.”

It was the first time she called him anything other than ‘My lord,’ and he paused for a moment, startled. “You have experience serving prisoners, then.”

“No, my lord. But I once did a prisoner a great favor, and he gave me one in return.”

He smiled at her sardonically. “And what was this favor he gave you?”

She studied him for a moment. “He helped me escape, my lord, and eventually, gave me this,”

She didn’t gesture to anything in particular, so he was forced to inquire, “Gave you what? Your position here?” Had it been his brother, he wondered, was that her prisoner? It sounded like something he would do, though Jamie didn’t recall any pressing reason anyone would want to escape the Vale.

She shook her head. “No, my lord, he gave me this,” she said, and pressed a hand to her face.

Jamie felt his own amusement at this conversation fade and something like dread took its place. “He gave you…your face?”

“Well, I say gave,” she says. “A better way of putting it would be ‘I took it.’”

He stared at her, an idea slowly forming in his head that made unease spread through his limbs like lead. “You…” Jamie trailed off as he realized there was only one reason he would be alone with a faceless man.

“Who sent you to kill me?” He asked.

She laughed. “Oh, no, I’m not here to kill you. That would be far too kind a fate.”

Jamie smiled lazily, though something inside him grew sharp at her words. “I hardly think death by faceless man is a kind fate.”

“No one sent me here, Ser Jamie,” The girl said. “No one but me.”

“And who are you?”

The girl leaned foreword. “Oh, I doubt you would recall my true face, even with your memory; it was years and years ago. But here is something you will remember: that little boy you pushed out of a tower, and left for dead.”

Jamie froze, because there were very few people who knew about that. She continued on, uncaring. “You see, I know why you pushed a defenseless little boy off of that tower, my lord. For love, wasn’t it?”

The girl leans in closer to him, and her voice lowers. “So when I say killing you would be a kindness, its because I know you have lost your sister and your lover and your soul, all in one. Your children as well, but then they never mattered much to you, did they?”

Her words cut into him like a knife, and he remembers vividly what that Dragon whore did to sit on the Iron Throne.

“Tell me, Kingslayer,” she says, standing on the tips of her toes so she can whisper in his ear, “is it strength, to resist the urge to jump out a window like the poor Boy King? Or is it weakness, to be too afraid of what lies beyond to finish the job Daenerys Targaryen started when she burnt your sister alive?”

With that, she smiled at him again, and left the room, taking his tray from the table like she always did. Jamie sat down heavily, his eyes staring at the wall without seeing a thing.

The next day, it was a different girl who brought him his meal, and she didn’t look him in the eyes, much less speak to him.

* * *

One day, they all watch as Lady Sansa marches up to her sister with a bow in hand and says, “Teach me,”

Arya turns to look at her, her brow furrowing slightly. “Sansa–”

“No.”

She hesitates for a moment. “I just… what brought this on?”

“I need to learn how to defend myself, and you are going to teach me.” I refuse to be a victim anymore, is what she doesn’t say, but she hears it all the same.

Her sister nods, hesitation gone, and the pair of them make their way to the yard.

Soon, they can be found there together almost every day, standing in front of the archery targets. Everyone watches as their lady-queen misses, and misses again, and again, and again, until one day she doesn’t.

Her arrows inch closer and closer to the black, burrowing deeper into the target as her strength grows. And then they bury themselves in the center of the target over and over, until her fingers grow callouses and the twang of her bowstring is a familiar rhythm to all the people of Winterfell.

On that day, her sister smiles at her, and she smiles back, and the next day she walks up to her brother Jon with a sword in her hand and says, “Teach me.”

* * *

All of the north watches as the queen of the south comes to Winterfell. There have been rumors of correspondence between their King and the Dragon queen, but no one ever thought they would lead to this. Or they hoped it wouldn’t.

It snows harder than ever before as the queen makes her way North with her people and her dragons. Daenerys Stormborn seems ironically named to the northerners, because she is forced to stop numerous times at different holdfasts in the North to wait out the worst of it. Reports reach Winterfell of how much her dragons seem to dislike this weather and they all take a grim sort of satisfaction out of that.

Queen Daenerys doesn’t seem to notice the over-abundance of wolves circling her party, nor the occasional raven flying over their heads, except to remind those around her of the hunting bans King Jon had instituted over the entire North.

When they finally reach Winterfell, the gates are heaved open, the snow that had been piled up that day collapsing inwards. The Queen herself leads the party, and her entire company is on horseback. Those faint few who remembered the day Robert Baratheon came to visit nod in approval, because a carriage had been a stupid idea even then.

King Jon and lady-queen Sansa stand with a few notable members of their council to greet her: Lord Seaworth, Lady Mormont, Lord Manderly, and Tormund Giantsbane, the last of which being less of a council member and more of a representative, because the Free Folk do not kneel.

The new maester had had to dig through centuries old records to find what the protocol was when dealing with a fellow monarch, or a monarch who was not your own. It was essentially the same, if one didn’t want to start a war.

As Queen Daenerys was announced, the Starks nodded, the Lords knelt, the Lady curtsied, and Tormund did absolutely nothing, simply sweeping his eyes over the rest of the people there, then snorting quietly. It was made clear over the weeks of their visit that the wildling much preferred the people of the north.

Lord Seaworth announced their King, as well as Lady Sansa. The Queen did not nod back, the servants scurrying around the yard noticed, and it lit a fire of indignation in their hearts. They would treat this woman with the honor her station demanded, but they would not respect her, they decided.

They also noticed how their lady-queen’s eyes flickered towards the Lord Hand, and remembered the whispers of her marriage to him down in the capital.

Then the King offered to have them all shown to their quarters, and one by one they filed inside, servants rushing to carry their luggage in after them.

* * *

Nobody really knew why the Dragon Queen allowed the North to stay independent, but as the talks to hammer out the details of their alliance continued, many wondered whether this was her revenge for losing half her kingdom: making everything as difficult for them as possible.

She even tried to withhold the Maesters’ services, before the Maester at Winterfell quietly stepped foreword and reminded her she had no right, that the Citadel served all, and also that in addition to being great healers, they were trained in the arts of poison. Of course, he didn’t come right out and say that last bit, but it was implied. So the North kept their maesters and the talks continued.

King Jon immediately suggested partners in trade as well as war, though who exactly would be attacking them was unclear. Queen Daenerys began to haggle over taxes and tariffs and border patrols, as well as the border itself. Soon everyone was frustrated, and eventually they all agreed that nothing more useful could be said.

A feast was held for them in true northern fashion, and everyone was slightly surprised at how unfazed Queen Daenerys was, until they remembered that she had been married to a Dothraki man before she ever claimed to be a queen.

Some of the Queen’s men began to mutter over the slight that was the younger Starks’ absence, but the northerners quickly came to their Lord and Lady’s defense, and those mutters were soon squashed.

* * *

The dragons were a great curiosity, when they deigned to remain nearby. They couldn’t fit within Winterfell’s walls, and so many servants were found wandering out of their way and up upon the walls to glance at them.

The snow was melted a great deal around them, and melted snow slowly turned to steam under the heat of the dragons’ scales.

Sometimes, when the meetings were stalled, the Queen could be found sitting outside with them, leaning against the side of the great black one. The Mother of Dragons was one of her many (many) titles, but very few people considered that if she was their mother, then they were her children. Mothers loved their children, more than anything else, and though her children were strange, they were still her children. It was an oddly humanizing sight, to those who caught her in those moments.

Even Lady Sansa was not immune to her curiosity, but instead of peering over the walls like the rest of them, she simply asked Queen Daenerys to introduce her to her children. The Mother of Dragons seemed oddly amused by this request, but obliged nonetheless.

Sansa stood before them, her eyes glimmering with an emotion that could have been described as giddy, had anyone else displayed it. Despite Daenerys’s warning that they may not take to her, that their scales would burn her, she reached out a hand, slowly, to the muzzle of the green one. It blinked slightly as her fingers rested on its tough scales, but showed no other reaction.

She stood like that for a long time, her hand on the muzzle of a dragon, and a smile of something like wonder spread over her face. Eventually, she slowly lifted her hand from the dragon and said farewell to all three before walking back inside with Queen Daenerys, her hand tinged pink with something akin to a sunburn but her face once again impassive.

The only person who was never seen anywhere near them was the King himself.

* * *

Queen Daenerys and King Jon held supper together one night, in the King’s Solar. It was an attempt to discuss the treaty they were slowly piecing together in peace, without their advisors or their agendas getting in the way.

Slowly, the conversation devolved into a more personal conversation, a discussion of their pasts and the roads they had taken to get where they are. Daenerys spoke of her time with the Dothraki, and Jon of his time with the Wildlings.

As the firelight began to dim, Daenerys leaned back in her seat and regarded Jon with a curious look. When he raised his eyebrows in question, she shook her head and laughed.

“Everyone else from the North has been in awe of me, and my dragons. It is perhaps a bit refreshing to be treated as more than my connection to my children, such as they are.

“Though, I am curious,” she said, leaning foreword with a playful glint in her eyes, “Why haven’t you asked about them? Or gone near them, as far as I can tell. Scared?”

Jon laughed, but it was slightly uncomfortable. “No, I just…” His voice faded, and he stared into the fire for a moment, remembering an almost-forgotten conversation with the Maester at Castle Black. What was it that he had said?

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. “A terrible thing,” Jon says, more to himself than to her.

“What?” Daenerys asks, slightly confused.

Jon looks back at her, the firelight still lingering in his vision, and takes a deep breath. “Do you know how Robert’s Rebellion started?”

Daenerys’s expression sobered. “Yes. Though I believe you and I have been told very different versions.”

Jon laughs bitterly. “Perhaps more different than you might think.”

* * *

The next day, conversation was strained between the two groups. Everyone looked between the two monarchs, sensing the tension and catching the intense looks one would send the other when they thought they weren’t looking.

Only Lady Sansa, it seemed, knew what was going on, and her face held an interesting mix of emotions. She knew what Jon had told the queen, and though she perhaps didn’t approve, she understood.

Their father (because he was still Jon’s father, no matter what) had spent his entire life keeping this secret, had taken it to the grave. It had made Sansa slightly proud of him when Bran revealed the truth, because in all those years of interacting with the best players of the so-called game, not a single one of them had guessed. Not even Varys could have known, for all his little birds.

Jon had been angry, and sad, and surprisingly understanding; Sansa had asked about the latter, and her brother had simply looked at her and said he could understand doing something like that, loving someone so much you would raise their child as your own. She wanted to embrace him now as she had done then, just remembering it.

Like it or not, Queen Daenerys was family, and now she knew it. So when the Queen asked to be shown to their crypts, after the meeting was over, she obliged with a welcoming smile.

Daenerys noted the statues of the old Kings of Winter with interest, from the wolves at their feet to the rusted iron swords on their laps. If there had been less weight to the moment, Sansa might have told the tales that came with each of them, their names and their deeds, but for now they walked in silence.

She hovered in front of Sansa’s father for a moment, taking in the details of his face that someone had painstakingly carved into stone. They didn’t stay there long, though, for then she turned to Lyanna Stark.

The pair of them stood in silence, watching the woman’s face, and Sansa noticed idly that the feather someone had placed in her hand was still there.

“It was the one place they left untouched,” Sansa said suddenly.

Daenerys turned to look at her, questioning. “The Iron Born. And the Boltons. For all their cruelty, and destruction, they left this place untouched.”

It was silent for another few moments before Sansa spoke up again. “Arya believes that everyone had it wrong, about her.”

“They rather did.” The Queen’s voice is full of wry humor, and Sansa give a small laugh.

“Yes, they did; but Arya…” Sansa glances at her. “Have you heard the tales they tell about my sister?”

Daenerys tilts her head slightly. “They say she’s wild, that she always has been. They say she resembles her Aunt a great deal.”

“In more ways than one.” She pauses. “My father…he always explained it as ‘the wolf’s blood’. He said that Arya had it, and– Rickon,” Sansa’s voice trips over the name of her dead brother. “He said his older brother, Brandon, had been full of it, and that Lyanna had had a touch of it as well.

“Arya thinks that she wasn’t kidnapped, stolen, raped; she thinks Lyanna ran away, from her betrothal to Robert Baratheon, and her fate stuck inside a castle sewing dresses and raising children.”

Daenerys hmms and turns back to the statue, studying the face with more intensity. “Perhaps your sister is right.”

“Having met Robert Baratheon, I completely understand the impulse,” Sansa quipped, and Daenerys offered her a grin.

* * *

The Queen left shortly thereafter, extracting a promise from both King Jon and Lady Sansa that they and their siblings would visit her in King’s Landing. The treaty was hammered out to all of their satisfactions, and in the end not much changed for the North, beyond a more inhibiting border passage.

Before the dragons took flight, King Jon finally stepped out to see them. Something in his heart leapt at the sight of them, his soul singing. Slowly he stepped up to the green one his sister had been enamored with, and reached a hand out much more recklessly than her.

The dragon pushed its head foreword eagerly to meet him, almost nuzzling his palm, and Jon laughed quietly, wonderfully. It breathed out slightly, smoke streaming from its increasingly warmer muzzle. Daenerys, from where she was standing behind him, called out a warning that they might burn his skin.

When he removed his hand, it was as unblemished as the Dragon Queen’s.

* * *

 


End file.
